


A Father's Love

by AWomanOfLetters



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fear, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Racism, Racist Language, Shooting, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWomanOfLetters/pseuds/AWomanOfLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to work on a very specific fear of mine...warning:  Not fun or fluffy in any kind of way. Produced as part of fannish culture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Father's Love

He pulled the ranch truck into the parking lot, looked at the building. Nothing much to look at, just another mid-sized office building in an area full of them. He had passed six or seven that looked like it in the past mile, four-, five-story boxes that differed only in color and shape and number of windows, sprawled in the middle of their parking lots. As he parked the truck near the building, he sneered at the trees, the landscaping. His fucking tax dollars at work. Fucking bureaucrats.

He checked to make sure he had everything before getting out. As he stepped down to the pavement, he tugged at his bright orange Carrhart rain jacket, resettled his ball cap on his head. Then he headed in.

There was a bored guard sitting at a plain, utilitarian desk, checking his phone. That was it. No metal detectors, no scanning, no nothing. Signs on the walls informed him what he could not bring in. Faded posters talked about the importance of agriculture in the state.

"Can I help you?" He looked like a spic, had that faint accent that lots of folks in the city had.

"Well, yeah. I was in the neighborhood, had some questions I wanted to run by the state conservation officer, state soil technician, about some programs I'm applying for...thought I'd just drop in while I was in town." There was a sign-in notebook sitting on top of one of those office sorters; he pulled it toward himself, picked up the pen.

"So that'd be Mr. Rodriguez, Mr. Donner. They're up on the fourth floor, rooms 410, 411. I can call up, let them know you're coming up..."

He filled in the names, looked at his watch to get the time, filled that in, too. "Hey. That'd be great. Name's Brian Bird," he said. The guard picked up his phone, talked to someone, nodded back at him. He handed him a visitor badge, pointed to his right.

"They've got some spare time, so you can go on up. Elevator's right over there." He handed him a visitor badge, pointed to his right.

Bird took the badge, clipped it on, nodded, said, "Thanks," and headed to the elevator.

First step. It was too easy.

When he got off the elevator, he stepped into a bland hallway stretching off in both directions. Anonymous doors lined the hall. A tiny sign opposite the elevator showed a basic map--a square of corridor with offices off it--with "Rooms 400-409" and an arrow pointing to his left, and "Rooms 410-419" and an arrow pointing to the right. He turned right. He walked past a series of photos of former state conservation officers, labeled with names and dates of their terms. He sneered at them as he passed.

Fucking bureaucrats making ranchers like him follow stupid rules and regulations that never made no sense. Talking about "good practices" and "working with the land" and "protecting endangered species" and shit like that. As if him and his fellow ranchers didn't know what the hell they were doing. And then this latest thing. What they had done to Jamie. Jamie was a good boy. And they went and kicked him out because he just happened to say some things they didn't like. As if little girly-girls should be out there doing men's work. And don't get him started on the spics and injuns. They shouldn't've done that to Jamie. Buncha frigging reds, the lot of 'em.

He found Room 411, opened the door.

It was actually not just one room--it was a huge room with cubicles and offices opening out of it. He looked around helplessly, stymied, no idea where to go next.

A woman in office clothes was walking by, saw his confused look. "Hey, there. Are you looking for someone?"

He pulled off his ball cap, scratched his head. "Yes'm. Looking for Donner? Rodriguez?" He put the cap back on.

She smiled. "Oh, yeah--I saw Ector going into Jim's office just a moment ago. It's over there." She pointed to the far corner.

He smiled back. "Thanks, ma'am."

"No problem!" she said lightly, and continued on her way.

He wove his way through the cubicle maze to the office she had pointed to. He stopped at the door, took a deep breath, prepared himself. 

Second step. Also easy.

It was a crowded office--big desk overflowing with paper, bookcases filled with official-looking books, colorful maps of the state on the wall, interspersed with framed photographs, a few award-looking things. A middle-aged guy with sandy hair, glasses, a greying beard, dressed in a peach-colored polo shirt and tan khakis, sat behind the desk; a darkly handsome burly Hispanic guy in a suit sat before it. They turned to look at him.

The guy behind the desk stood up, waved him in. "Mr. Bird? Pleased to meet you; I'm Jim Donner, this is Ector Rodriguez. Dave down at the front desk said you had some questions about one of our programs? C'mon in. So what part of the state is your...ranch?...in?" He reached over the desk to shake Bird's hand. Bird took it, shook it, and mentally dinged him for the peach polo--what kinda guy would wear a color like that? He shook Rodriguez's hand, too. It was only polite, though these two fuckers didn't rate real politeness.

He closed the door behind him, reached into his jacket. "Yeah, yeah, I'm looking into--"

What he pulled out was not one of their program flyers, but a handgun. He pointed it at Donner.

Rodriguez jerked in shock. Donner held his hands up, slowly sat back down in his chair. His eyes were wide. Scared. Good.

"Mr. Bird--whatever the problem is--we can work on it--I'm sure--!"

"Yeah. Right. You injun-loving, faggot-loving, butt-fucking Communist bastards can 'work on it'. You motherfuckers ruin my son's career, life over some shit he said that hurt some poor widdle squaw's feelings. And you say 'we can work on it'. Well, fuck you! Fuck the both of you!"

He pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gun firing was really loud. He could hear sudden cries of alarm outside the office.

Donner looked down at the hole in his chest, the blood pouring out, looked back up at him with a confused, dazed expression, then slumped down. At the same time, Rodriguez lunged toward him, a panicked, angry look on his face. Bird turned to face him, pulled the trigger again. Rodriguez staggered back, fell half onto the visitor's chair, then slid to the floor, deep red blood pooling beneath him. Donner was moaning, Rodriguez keening a high-pitched sound of pain. He could smell the blood. The outer offices were eerily quiet now. 

Bird looked at them both, then spat. "Spics and fags and cock-sucking commies, that's what our government has turned into. Bastards trying to ruin other people's lives. Screw you."

He opened the office door, looked out. He could hear someone sobbing beneath a desk close by.

What the hell.

He stepped to the desk, looked under it. A middle-aged woman with long black hair, wide cheekbones, dusky skin was crouched down there, hiding. He smiled, raised the gun. "Bye, you fucking squaw bitch." He pulled the trigger again. It was amazingly easy. The blood splashed across the underside of the desk.

He moved on to the next desk. No-one there. He passed a break room, looked inside. Three guys were huddled down behind the counter. One was on his phone, whispering, "--don't know, j-just heard shots--help!--no, three--t-two at first--"

Bird shot him. One of the two other guys cried out, "Xavier! Oh, shit!", reaching for him. The other guy flinched, ducked behind upraised hands, said, "Oh sweet Jesus, don't shoot me, man! P-please--"

Bird could hear sirens getting closer to the building. He also heard the outer door to the big office room opening. He looked behind him, peered at it, could just barely see it. The bored guard was there, peeking around the door, gun barrel at the ready. Bet he wasn't bored any more!

Fuck it. He looked at the two guys, raised the handgun, shot one, then the other. He had a few more shots left...

The guard backed out. He could hear police radios, voices, feet thumping down the corridor. It sounded like there was a shitload of them out there.

Well, shit. At least he had gotten the guys who ruined Jamie's life. No reason to try killing cops; they were good guys, not like these whimpering fucking bureaucrats. He turned around, looked out the window. It was a pretty day now that the rain had stopped. Blue sky was beginning to break through the clouds.

Jamie would just have to handle the ranch on his own, he thought.

He lifted the gun barrel, put it in his mouth. Pulled the trigger.


End file.
